


Sword and Scalpel

by knucklewhite



Category: Dominion (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Tragedy in the Making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5259314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knucklewhite/pseuds/knucklewhite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Becca will never stop asking questions. Michael will never stop being the answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sword and Scalpel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keepthekettleon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepthekettleon/gifts).



> This... got slightly less romantic than I intended. Eep. I hope you enjoy it, all-the-fan-love!

Becca is fifteen.

“You make no sense,” she says to the Archangel Michael. Her heart thumps in the back of her throat, but there’s no containing the statement; it slips out of her mouth as easily as the lemon cookies had slipped into it.

She tenses, waiting to be struck down by a bolt of lightning. It’s only the third time she’s seen the Archangel in the flesh, but it’s so different seeing him here, in her home. The other two times he’d been just a tall, dark figure in the distance, General Riesen’s looming shadow. A figure of myth. It seems wrong, somehow, seeing him sitting at the other side of the table in the sunny breakfast room of the Thorn building. She wants to memorize his every feature, and, at the same time, she doesn’t want to look at him at all.

It’s confusing.

It’s the first time, too, that Becca has seen the wings first-hand; well, the first time she’s ever had so much as a glimpse of them, anyway. They had vanished into the dark fabric of his coat before she could get a good look. But a glimpse was enough to spark all number of questions. Eight-balls make perfect scientific sense; her mother had her studying parasites and symbiotes in Vega’s dusty library as soon as she was able to read.

The Archangel Michael and his impossible, vanishing wings? They make no sense at all.

In fact, this whole situation makes no sense. They’re sitting at a table in their bright breakfast room eating butter-lemon cookies while children die of starvation outside the walls and the world turns to dust and ashes. It’s as absurd as a Lewis Carroll tale: _An Archangel Comes to Tea at the End of the World._

Her mother’s cup clinks against its saucer. “Rebecca Thorn.” The name is pronounced with the same intonation as the preceding conversation about universal health policies and mandatory possession resistance training for all citizens, but Becca looks down at the table all the same, flushing at her mother’s disapproval. There’s another clink of china as her mother takes a sip of rosemary tea. “You know better than to make ignorant, unscientific statements.” A pause and another sip. “Let alone be rude to a guest of House Thorn.”

Becca bites her lip, chancing a glance at where the Archangel sits, straight-backed, across the table. His form is a black shape cut cleanly from the cream wallpaper behind him; his skin is as pale as paper, seemingly pore-less. He looks alien and forbidding. But neither he nor his absent father have struck her down yet.

Does he miss his father? Becca barely remembers hers.

She takes a breath and meets his gaze. “But I… but the laws of physics, though? The wings — sorry, _your_ wings, sir — they make no sense from a scientific perspective, do they? I mean, matter and mass—”

This time her mother’s voice does rise. “Enough, Becca. Michael, I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine,” Michael says.

Becca thinks she can detect a twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. She’s not sure if she’s relieved or annoyed.

He tilts his head to examine her, and Becca fights the urge to shift her chair backwards. It’s unsettling to be the focus of those dark eyes. But there — that’s definitely a smile.

“You’re right, Becca Thorn,” he says. “It doesn’t make sense. Not yet, anyway. But it will. Humankind used to believe the earth was flat, that everything revolved around this small planet. But I’ve watched the way you grow and you learn and you _question_ — and that’s what makes your species so admirable, so valuable.”

His voice is like honey, rich and smooth. Becca leans forward in her chair, captivated.

“I have no doubt, Becca,” he continues, “that there is no question you won’t be able to find an answer to. Never stop asking questions.”

—

Becca is seventeen.

She stands, spot-lit, in the centre of the Senate chamber, the seats of the house heads arrayed around her like points on a clock-face. All those familiar faces — Frost, who taught her how to bake lemon cookies; Romero, who once caught Becca with a V4 boy and just winked in approval instead of telling Becca’s mother — are rendered featureless blank ovals in the darkness beyond the circle of light. Becca can, however, make out the dark gap at 11 o’clock where her mother’s seat sits empty next to General Riesen’s. The space looks like a missing tooth in Vega’s mouth. Becca runs her tongue over her own teeth; it’s all she can do not to grit them. She digs her nails into her palms instead.

Whele’s still talking.

Becca blinks, slowly, and refocuses on the discussion.

“—position is hereditary, of course, but these are extenuating circumstances.” Whele pauses to clasp his hands, as seemingly benevolent as Principate Harwick at Savior’s Day Mass. “I think we need to consider the… democratic response, the _only_ response to such a tragedy as Portia Thorn’s untimely death. We all mourn dear Portia, but her daughter is far too young to act as Second Consul. I’m only thinking of the girl and her wellbeing, of course — as well as the wellbeing of Vega herself.”

Riesen shakes his head. “The charter was put in place for a reason, David. Vega is still young. We need a stable foundation right now, a sense of purpose and security. A sense of continuity and tradition.”

“Exactly! We need a Second Consul with experience, not an untested youth.” Whele tilts his head to where Becca stands in the centre of the chamber. “No offense intended, of course, my dear.”

The spotlight is hot on the top of Becca’s head; she’s sweating in her stiff, black mourning clothes. She licks her salty lips and smiles. “Consul Whele,” she says, loud enough to reverberate around the chamber, “I understand your reservations. Indeed, I share them. My mother gave everything to this city. She gave her life to this city. And I want nothing more than Vega’s stability and growth, even if that means forfeiting my right to my mother’s seat.” Becca waits a moment for her words to stop echoing around the room, stop bouncing off the domed ceiling with its sumptuous painting of the Archangel Michael in battle regalia. “I agree with Consul Whele. I request a vote.”

“Becca!” Riesen rises to his feet.

“No, let the girl finish talking. It’s her decision.” Whele’s smile is sharp.

Becca’s is sharper, but it’s the bitter sharpness of lemons.

There are two paths here: one leads to the Senate chamber, to power and double-speak and ruthless compromise; the other leads to a lab, to research and healing and innovation. Questions and answers. Becca knows she can make a huge difference on both of these journeys. Her mother taught her to be a scalpel, to cut away the bad and leave a clean wound ready for healing, to shape with finesse where required, whether the subject be a body or a policy.

But Becca can’t choose her path right now.

Let Vega answer her questions for her.

She bows her head. “Let the Senate make the decision,” she says. “I repeat: I request a vote. I have every faith in the Senate’s judgment.”

Part of her — most of her, if she’s honest — hopes for the second path, the path of least responsibility. She’s grown up seeing the toll leadership took on her mother, the thankless decisions and unhappy compromises that wore away at her mother’s soul like the sea against a cliff face. Her mother was never happy with Riesen’s V-System, but she understood that sacrifices had to be made. “A structure always needs a solid foundation,” she had told Becca, “and that foundation is the most important part. Get that wrong, and the whole thing crumbles.”

Becca will make a sacrifice if she must, but she’s not ready to throw herself off the cliff.

She stands silently, hands clasped, as the house heads deliberate over her future, only casting her eyes occasionally to the painting of the Archangel looming over her head. The being in the picture looks nothing like the real Michael, of course; those golden ringlets and soft, androgynous features are the antithesis of the thing that nests in the Stratosphere. Vega’s Michael is dark and hard and magnetic. Vega’s Michael doesn’t look like a child playing dress-up.

Becca waits for her answer.

The vote is cast.

The Senate lands one vote in Whele’s favor. The path of least resistance it is. Becca will abdicate her seat as Second Consul to one of the other house heads — probably Blanche Romero, who is almost certainly sleeping with David Whele. It’s beyond Becca’s concern now. She takes a deep breath and watches the dust motes dance in the beam of the spotlight.

“Wait.” The voice comes from the back of the room, and the Senate turns as one. “Am I not permitted a vote?”

Becca turns, too, although she’d know that honey-rich voice anywhere. It’s had a guilty starring role in most of her teenage fantasies, after all.

Michael stands at the back of the Senate chamber, his eyes glinting in the darkness. It’s funny how, blurred and indistinct as he is in the shadows, it’s impossible to mistake his presence; it’s like the shadows shape themselves around him to best dramatic effect.

“I am part of the Senate, am I not?” Michael says. “I have all faith in Becca Thorn’s ability as Consul. I cast my vote with her.”

“The vote is set,” Whele says. “We’ve already decided. You’re too late, Michael.” Whele stands and takes a step toward the centre of the circle. “Even with your vote, we’re at a tie.”

“A tie,” Riesen says, “lands in favor of the charter.”

Whele bares his teeth. “It’s too late, Edward. The decision is made. Even with the angel’s vote, we’re still split.”

Riesen stands. “Overruled. The charter is clear on this matter.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the other house heads.

Becca licks her lips again, unsure what to do with her hands. She clasps them in her mourning dress, just to feel something solid against her fingers.

And so, she is Head of House Thorn and Second Consul.

And so, she has many questions to find the answers to.

—

Becca is twenty.

Becca can’t stop thinking of him.

Becca dates a series of boys with dark hair and pale skin and stern expressions.

None of them are an answer to her question.

—

Becca is twenty-four.

She’s been sipping her cocktail and watching Michael for most of the evening. He’s been so rarely in Vega over the past few years — off on trade and scouting missions, off doing whatever it is that archangels get up to on their down-time — that to see him is a novelty. It’s a novelty the V6 elite aren’t about to pass up on, which is why this launch of the new water tower is so crowded. The attendees, the cream of Vega’s upper houses, are overcoming their wariness of their pet angel just to get a good gawp at him. A few of them are drunk enough to violate the Handbook’s rules and lay their hands on him: little touches on his arm, his hand, during polite conversation. Not enough to cause offense, but enough to get a good grope of that porcelain skin.

Becca smiles into her glass. He looks very uncomfortable.

Jane Frost is gripping his sleeve and rubbing herself up against him when Becca decides to intervene and save him. “Archangel, you wanted to discuss the latest revisions to the universal health policy?”

It’s difficult to suppress a laugh at the look of relief on his face.

Later, on the balcony, he asks her, “Was I so very obvious?”

“Well, yes. You looked like you’d rather be anywhere else. And you’re usually so stoic.”

“Stoic.”

Becca toasts the view of the Vega skyline, its glittering towers and neon brush strokes. “Stoic. Made of stone. I suppose it’s an insurance policy when you’ve lived for eons.”

“I’m not entirely unbreakable.”

She looks sideways at him. His profile is gilded by the light spilling from the room behind them; he’s heartbreakingly perfect.

“Well,” she says, before she can stop herself, “tell me all about those weak spots and we’ll see if I can’t figure out a way to poke those same places on that wayward brother of yours.” Chewing on her lip, she leans down to set her glass on the tiled floor of the balcony. She’s obviously drunker than she thought. She sways slightly as she stands, and Michael grips her arm to steady her. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I always speak before I think.”

“It’s charming,” he says, with what’s almost a smile. His grip has relaxed but he still has a hand on her arm — and Becca’s entire world compresses down into that small place where his bare skin touches hers.

“Are you flirting with me, Archangel?”

“Do I really need to answer that?”

—

Becca is twenty-five.

She runs her hands over Michael’s shoulders, following the curves of bone and muscle. There’s no difference in his underlying anatomy — no difference she can feel, anyway — but still… but still her fingertips tingle as she trails them across his skin, as if there’s some genetic memory in her body that senses his true nature and wants to worship it.

Heat kindles in her belly.

Would an X-ray or MRI show some evidence of the wing structure?

He moans, low. He tires of this as much as she does: which is to say, not at all.

She presses her naked skin against his, her belly to the planes of his back, and bites at his neck, just beneath the soft, feathery hairs at his nape. “Show me?”

He needs little convincing. He turns, quicker than her eye can track, and presses her into the bed. The silk sheets are slick and cool against her skin, a contrast to the firebrands of his hands on her hips as he guides her legs around his waist. His shoulder blades are slick marble under her questing fingers.

He closes his eyes as he enters her and Becca groans at the feeling of feathers sprouting between her fingers.

**Author's Note:**

> As kyrilu noted in her lovely Becca-centric fic, [The Other Princess](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3412568), the canon timeline is a little confusing regarding Portia's death and Becca's age. I've just gone with my gut. ;)


End file.
